A Soldier's Call
by Enchanting Grace
Summary: Russian Soldier, Ivan Brangisky, finds himself as a soldier in Stalingrad, and is faced at odds with his seemingly- easy mission. When he meets, Captain Elias Nevski his commanding officer, who is more interested in satisfying his lust for blood, than fighting to win the war, Ivan struggles on his mission to maintain a unwavering façade, while he watches his resolve slowly crumble


Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or any of its characters.

Summary: (Extended)

 _Russian Soldier, Ivan Brangisky, finds himself as a soldier in Stalingrad, and is faced at odds with his seemingly- easy mission. When he meets, Captain Elias Nevski his commanding officer, who is more interested in satisfying his lust for blood, than fighting to win the war, Ivan struggles on his mission to maintain a unwavering façade, while he watches his resolve slowly crumble around him. WW2- Centric_

Warning: Character Death, Dark themes(WW2-Centric), Psychological and Loyalty Trials, Identity Crisis. Since this is a WW2- Centric story, this is not for the faint of heart. Like my other stories, which the majority having _heavy_ themes, this story will not be an exception. You are warned.

A/N: The story is in a first-person point of view. Since Ivan is the narrator in this story, the pronouns " _I, me, my",_ will be used interchangeably. The only time this rule will be broken, is when Ivan is being addressed to- in which his name will be is also my first time doing a setting in an actual battlefield. _War Talk_ doesn't count, because the characters there, were in a secluded location. Also, as with _Morning Glory,_ I believe that this will be a nice change of scenery compared my earlier works. You can just _know_ that there will be all sorts of drama and chaos on a battlefield- a perfect landscape for a uneasy story.

Enjoy!

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A Soldier's Call

 _BOOK ONE_

* * *

SEPTEMBER 14, 1942 – 11:45 P.M

Time is a fluid entity. It ebbs and flows. It slips through fingers and slides through the hourglass. You can kill it, or try to turn it back. Many try to save it or spare some of it. We can waste it, watch it fly, and never have enough of it.

But in the end it is just an illusion, a concept created by man to count his hours and days spent in our earthly pursuits. It is a marker from which we can look back or look forward, identifying what once was and what is yet to be. It is invisible and intangible, impossible to explain, but it grounds us so we know where we are in the universe and without it there is no past and no future, only now, the moment, and we are nothing but specks floating through eternity.

I have no sense of time. I have a pocket watch, despite its impracticality during warfare, but this has never seemed to help me. In my mind, the loss of food, water, sleep, and heat were nothing in comparison to the loss of time, which made the drive out of Stalingrad unbearable.

Private Nikita sat beside me, contemplating the coming assault, while Durasov and Belinski shared rags and oil to clean their rifles before me. Sokolov sat at the edge of the compartment, his legs swaying back and forth as they dangled about in the breeze. Colonel Lev Voronin, a barrel-chested man from Moscow, sat beside the driver in the front, while General Dimitri Badanov and Captain Elias Nevski sat together beside Nikita, drawing out maps of the city in preparation for the assault.

We had sent the children to watch the roads ahead in case of a German counter-attack. Rumor has it that the Germans have been preparing for a drive into the city to take back the area near the Volga River, which had recently been assaulted and taken by our forces. My squad and I believe this to be what it is…a rumor. But General Badanov did not.

After arranging several pieces of Intel, his scouts had collected since the beginning of the battle, Badanov managed to find which section in the German line was the weakest; Army Group B made up the majority of the enemy forces fighting in Stalingrad and had been fighting ever since the Volga assault, and ever since their numbers have begun to dwindle. To keep our forces from retaking the rest of the city, the Germans started their ground assault, taking over as much space as possible since the 13th. To keep the Germans from taking more, Badanov managed to decipher which point in the enemy line would be the most vulnerable to a well-coordinated attack. He decided this point was on a company of Italians based on a marshy field to the west of Stalingrad. So, taking Colonel Voronin as his second-in-command and Nevski as the colonel's subordinate in the field, we prepped for the attack.

Nevski was the toughest and most ruthless man in the entire regiment. He believed a platoon of his shock troopers would be enough for the assault, but was ignored by Badanov, who was swept with the greed that came from the thought that, if the assault was a success, the rest of the German army would be severely weakened and the battle of Stalingrad would have been won by the Soviets because of his "genius" planning. He suspected that after his victory, he would be held in high esteem by Stalin and be given high military honors. Nevski, on the other hand, thought that revealing such a large force would be foolish, as the Germans would see this and have enough time to reinforce their positions. So, after much reasoning, Nevski convinced Colonel Voronin to change the time of the assault from eight in the morning to midnight.

So now we sat, a blanket of stars unveiled above us. We had passed the edges of city—which the Luftwaffe raid every day and have quickly turned into a heap of rubble, despite the heavy toll of civilian casualties— leaving Stalingrad far behind only a couple of moments ago. Driving up an upward slope, I found myself resting my rifle on my side so that I did not slide down the bench.

Nikita drew out a cigarette, resting his own rifle aside and offering his pack to me. "Hey, Ivan, would you like a cig?"

"No thank you, comrade." I replied. "Tobacco fuses your bodily fluids- makes it harder to fight. Same with alcohol…it messes you up. I wouldn't want to make things too easy for the fascists, would I?"

Belinski chuckled. "If we had more people with that kind of mindset in this army, comrade, the Germans wouldn't fear us." He leaned in at the sight of my confusion. "I read in a letter I pocketed from a dead German that we are, quote, "No ordinary troopers, fighting on the whim of blood lust and to satisfy their cannibalistic natures. I fear I will not only be killed in this battle, but stripped of my heart, liver, skin, and limbs to be served as the Soviet's next meals. May the Führer show mercy and save me from this hellhole." I believe that if we didn't fight with crazed expressions, we'd have a harder time fighting them, as they would think us normal human beings."

"I'm going to take a guess and say that you're overthinking it, comrade."

He laughed and Nikita slipped his pack of cigarettes back into his breast pocket, taking his rifle and resting it on his lap.

Ivan enjoyed moments like these. Between the pornographic images of War and Death, I find myself transformed-translated into various points of images. A cool gust of wind blowing on an oxygen tank. A burnt cigar leaning loose on a trunk. A drunken stagger of walk. Peaceful times that reminded me of home. Of my life as an entity. One that holds himself for speech, unwavering from even the most petrified of eyes.

Between the pornographic images of War and Death, I find myself as an iron weight; bearing down none but his own strength, only to _snap,_ at the swiftest strike. Peace was a rather distant dream; only the most desperate desired it. An empty promise of less blood, with the sacrifice of wealth, of personhood, of freedom. I suppose that humans could not be free, without the cost of death. _Death!_ It's dastardly care of manipulation; holds my being from afar, only letting its grip fall short at the slightest movement.

I suppose That Which Was, That Which Could Never Be.

We will never be truly free. We will all cling to our darkest moments; its grip could never leave from our cold hands-!

I suppose I should stop. For there is a need for cover. A msquadron of jets soared up overhead and, to all of our amazement, began to take fire. We started to count the ones that were destroyed, watching as they plummeted down to Earth. After every two or so, I would lose become distracted by something else and lose count, so my numbers were always ten times smaller than my comrades'. I did, however, manage to deduce what types of planes they were, which the majority of my squad could not. They were IL-2 Sturmoviks, good and feisty planes.

Too bad they had to be used for war.

After a few moments of intense fire mirrored by the stars and the clouds that were hung from the nighttime sky, the fighters broke off and retreated back to the city.

The Germans began to open fire on us, with both mortars and machine guns. Amidst the chaos, our truck swerved to the left, coming to a complete stop. Nevski jumped from his seat, unlocking the chain hooked around the gate and opening it up. Slinging his submachine gun over his shoulder, he waved his arms in the air and screamed.

"Get out of the truck! Get out of the truck! Push your way up the hill and send death to the German invader!"

We gave a chorused shout, "Ura!" and charged out from the compartment, speeding through a hail of bullets and explosions. The Germans had fixed positions built into the side of the hill, barbed wire strung up on pillboxes fitted behind a row of makeshift trenches. Mortars, artillery, and anti-tank weapons fired down onto them, assisted by tremendous machine gun fire. Despite this, we pushed forward, taking heavy casualties as we advanced. I distinctively remember firing my rifle at a German that climbed up out of the trench to throw a grenade. I watched as the bullet slammed into his temple and blew out a chunk of his face, and the grenade he had primed dropped down behind him and exploded at the feet of three of his comrades.

We shoved ourselves into the trenches, bayonets fixed and grenades primed, and took the lives of several German soldiers. Elias took a bayonet he had brought from his home in Moscow and began his slaughter of the helpless pig soldiers, who ran in fright of his terrifying weapon. I ordered my men to assault one of the pill-boxes, ordering Belinski and Nikita to head around its flank while Durasov and I primed our grenades.

The Germans climbed up out of the pillbox at the sight of our assault, raising their weapons and covering their escape. I brought one of them down with a pop from my rifle, while Durasov tossed his grenade, killing the rest upon impact. After pulling the bodies into a pile and stripping them of anything of value, we headed back down the hill.

I watched, helpless, as Voronin ordered the bodies and fortifications burned while weapons and ammo were scavenged. We took seventeen Germans prisoner, but only nine were kept alive to be interrogated.

With all of this done and the prisoners were all loaded onto the remaining trucks, Nevski ordered us onto what little space was left on the trucks, to return to the city and help the fighting there. Later, I would learn that half of the Germans taken prisoner were later executed by firing squad, while the rest were set loose and hunted down by the war dogs.

It is these little facts that I have decided to write to you, diary, for war is hell. But that is not the half of it, for war is mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War can make you a man; war can make you dead.

The truths are contradictory. It can be argued, for instance, that war is grotesque. But in truth war is also beauty. For all its horror, you can't help but gape at the awful majesty of combat. You stare out at tracer rounds unwinding through the dark like brilliant red ribbons. You crouch in ambush as a cool, impassive moon rises over the nighttime streets. You admire the fluid symmetries of troops on the move, the great sheets of metal-fire streaming down from a fighter jet, the illumination rounds, and the orange plume of a grenade exploding. It's not pretty, exactly. It's astonishing. It fills the eye. It commands you. You hate it, yes, but your eyes do not. Like a killer forest fire, like cancer under a microscope, any battle or bombing raid or artillery barrage has the aesthetic purity of absolute moral indifference—a powerful, implacable beauty.

To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. Though it's odd, you're never more alive than when you're almost dead. You recognize what's valuable. Freshly, as if for the first time, you love what's best in yourself and in the world, all that might be lost.

* * *

SEPTEMBER 16, 1942 – 6:00 P.M

General Badanov has left us today for a meeting in Moscow.

He has given Elias, who has given me, strict orders to hold an important inter-section that homes both a coal mine and two hotels—which we have been using extensively as over watch positions on the Germans, who foolishly try to make their way down the road. We let them do this…let them set up positions inside the houses and bars that stand on either sides of the two interjecting roads. Then we wait until the night after and slit all of their throats as they sleep, leaving them for the next patrol to find dead on the floor.

It is strange what one man can do to another; what a German man can do to a Slavic man. But that's all this war is: a mass genocide of both races.

Colonel Voronin came to my squad with two men carrying weapons and ammo, as well as other supplies. We, sitting there in a dusty corner atop the roof of a three story apartment complex, took the provisions and continued to watch the road. I do not like this guerrilla warfare. I believe in a fair fight—not to the extremes of standing in a line of thirty-some men with fixed bayonets and muskets—but more than ambushing the enemy, popping off a few shots, and then running away only to come back later and do it all over again. Voronin says that the Germans are focusing their attacks on the other side of town, but that they have also been sending armored patrols to our sector.

"Stay vigilante and keep alert, comrades." Voronin said. "Though the generals have lost interest in us, I think they'll be sending some tanks our way, so make sure you keep the guns and anti-tanks ready."

We all nod and Voronin leaves.

Belinski and Nikita begin to share a cigarette as Durasov takes out a pack of cards to play Preferans with Sokolov and me. We agree on playing three rounds, as the sun has begun to fade into distance, hiding behind the thick clouds hovering in the early autumn sky.

* * *

SEPTEMBER 17, 1942 – 6:00 A.M

I lost nearly fifty rubles in that card game.

I went to bed with a hot head and an empty wallet, waking up the next morning with a persistent headache.

Sokolov woke up with a burning hole in his pocket, winning over a hundred and fifty rubles between Durasov, Belinski, and I, and two clips of ammo from Nikita, who ran out of money quick into the game. Captain Nevski came up to our position and told me to take one of my men and man a machine gun nest made of a ruined car and barbed wire down on the road.

I decided to take Sokolov as revenge for winning the game, despite how bad a shot he was and how angry he was after I chose him. But that's what he gets for winning.

Over the past month or so, we've stocked up on stolen German weapons as our own begin to dwindle in supply. The MG-42, a German universal machine gun, has seemed to become the most common. We've used them to such extents that I have caught the sight of them more often than the standard SG-43 Goryunov machine gun (the successor to the much older PN M1910 heavy machine gun. Personally, I could care less what weapons we use, so long as they get the job done right.

While the remainder of my squad stayed up on the roof, Sokolov and I made our ways to the nest, relieving fellow soldiers Antonov and Letlev, who had been manning the gun since we'd been deployed onto the intersection. They were both covered in soot and bleeding in several places, probably caused by the several attacks coordinated by the Germans. The pair was relieved to see us, wishing us luck and handing us their helmets, which they had filled with about a dozen belts of ammo. I took the helmets while Sokolov positioned the gun on the hood of the car, taking precise care to make sure the barb wire went over the barrel so that it didn't shoot it and send a ricochet back on us. Sokolov was smart like that, he was smart with weapons.

"Do you really believe the Germans will attack us, comrade?" he asked me.

I sighed. "It doesn't really matter what I believe, comrade. I'm not a German. I don't possess their way of thinking—their intellect. I dropped out of school when I was fifteen, so I have no gift for strategy. What about you? If you're that smart with weapons, you must be smart at something else besides card games."

"I'm good with numbers." Sokolov replied after a moment of thinking.

I sat down in the ditch behind the car and tried to relax. Sokolov, on the other hand, kept his eye on our task. He peered down the sights of the MG-42, watched the other end of the road, and kept checking our recon binoculars. I remained completely still, kicking my legs up onto the edge of the ditch and placing my helmet on my chest. Though I would prefer to be stationed high in the safety of the apartment complex's roof, I was determined to make the best out of my situation and act as if I was up there.

Later, Commissar Pavelonva, our company's political officer, came around and gave his weekly "morale" speech. This mainly consisted of descriptions on the weakness of the Germans, our own strength, how we cannot fail, how Stalin has given us this great honor and must fight to our last breath to see his wishes prevail, and that, by the end of this fight, there would be mountains upon mountains of dead German bodies lined up around the city gates. After this, he passed around packs of cigarettes and unloaded a truck's worth of ammo and supplies to aid the company in our fight. Afterward, he climbed up into the back of the truck and left, informing us that he had urgent business near the center of town. He also warned us that, "The Germans are all around. Keep your eyes peeled, comrades. I shall return."

And he was gone.

Belinski came down to our position and passed around a ration of rum, telling us not to tell Nevski about it, as he would probably shoot us all.

"Enjoy, comrades."

We covered him as he crossed the street and entered one of the buildings, leaving Sokolov and I alone in the crisp, cool weather of the early fall. I do not know how long, but we sat there for a long time, just waiting for something to happen. Even as the temperatures dropped as the sun began to set, we sat there, doing nothing until we were relieved by Nikita and Durasov.

Belinski always seemed to get out of the dangerous jobs, jobs that required work, or just, simply, any jobs in particular. That was what was strange about him, but that was what made him interesting. That is one of the few reasons why I call him "friend."

* * *

SEPTEMBER 30, 1942 – 12:00 P.M

An entire squad was slaughtered by a mortar strike today. Antonov, Letlev, Arseni, all of First Squad. Some of them were close friends of mine. I must remain head-strong; I cannot let the Germans get to me. I am scared. My family has fled from Stalingrad and I fear I will never see them again. We've been stuck on the roof of this building for too long now. Way too long now.

* * *

SEPTEMBER 31, 1942 – 3:45 P.M

Heard a loud scream this morning followed closely by a big explosion. I have pondered for hours to what it was, as it sounded neither male nor feminine. Nikita and I have made a list of suggestions to what it might have been.

Belinski thinks it was a little girl.

A couple of minutes ago, we were bypassed by an armored patrol. I counted twenty-one troops, three dogs, and four Tiger I tanks. Though my squad has begun to go over why they wished the patrol had spotted us; they wanted to fight, show the Germans that we were tough and not cowardly ambushers. Nevski came to us later, stating that those troopers were members of the Waffen-SS and we would probably have been slaughtered like pigs. Nice. I'm glad our commanding officer has complete and total confidence in our fighting power. I've known Nevski since the beginning of the war, but recently he's been coming off as a bit of an ass.

* * *

OCTOBER 19, 1942 – 1:00 A.M

It has been raining for a long time—for about two weeks now—but, today, I have seen the first signs of the winter snow. We were forced to displace from the roof as it started to collapse from the weight of the white powder, setting up a series of foxholes around the road. I think this is a foolish move, as we are now vulnerable to the freezing cold temperatures and to any air attack from the fascists.

I believe the snow shall be the end of us; it shall slow us down, make it harder for us to move our limited artillery, supplies, and guns. It will make it harder to communicate with one another, as the snow will weigh down on our radio lines and freeze up the wires. Soon, when we try and make contact with other forces, all we will hear in response is static. It's a strange, irritating sound, like someone was crumbling up a roll of tin.

I've been fighting in this war since the very beginning, all the way from the action in Moscow to the counter-offensive in Kharkov, and I have yet to see a fight that has proved too much for my sanity.

With luck, this one won't either. But its chances have become very slim.

Today is Sunday, the usual day of rest in my household, but a day of work for Stalin's finest. The XO of the main army contacted us today, informing us that we are to embark at once for the lines. This was, of course, not received with cheerful reception. But, despite this, we all got our kits ready and formed up into a loose column formation.

We started marching at 2 o'clock in the afternoon and, at about three, an order was passed down for my company to deploy to the right of the main lines and dig in on the south bank of a railroad cutting. We deployed and started to dig in, but as the soil around the cut was more like chalk, we only managed to make only two dozen shallow holes.

While we were digging, the Germans opened fire with their artillery. The range was perfect, and about twelve shells at a time began bursting in line directly over our vulnerable heads. All of us, except for Nevski, fell flat on our faces, frightened and surprised; but after a while we stood up and looked over the rough bulwark we had set up. We could see nothing, but soon turned our attention to the two that had been wounded and the five that had been killed.

We could see a lot of movement coming from the buildings ahead, as well as the thunderous booms sprouting from both rifles and machine guns. I know the fascists are planning something, I just don't know what.

The Germans attacked in great masses on our left flank, but were beaten back by another company. A platoon of German troopers crossed our front about 800 yards to the right, and we opened fire on them. We hit a few, but the fact that we were doing something definite improved our moral immensely, and took away a lot of our anxiety.

The artillery fire from the Germans remained very heavy, but was dropping behind us on a friendly battery. Captain Nevski, who had stayed in the open all the time, had taken a couple of men to help get the wounded away from the battery behind us. He returned about 6:30 p.m., when the firing had died down a bit, and told us the battery had been blown to bits.

I was then sent with my squad to an outpost to man a signal box at a level crossing, and found it was being used as a clearing station for wounded.

One man was in a very bad way, and kept shrieking out for somebody to bring a razor and cut his throat, and two others died almost immediately. I was going to move a bundle of hay when someone called out, "Look out, comrade. There's a severed _hora_ in there." I saw a leg completely severed from its body, and suddenly felt very sick and tired.

The German rifle fire started again and an artillery-man to whom I was talking was shot dead. I was sick then. Nothing much happened during the night, except that one man spent the time kissing a string of rosary beads, and another swore practically the whole night.

* * *

OCTOBER 20, 1942 – 5:34 P.M

It has been a cold, wet day today, and due to the unstable soil, we were forced to move out from the railroad cut. Nevski told us to rest in an abandoned school in northern Stalingrad while he and 4th squad went out to find targets for our mortar teams.

After testing our telephone lines and receiving the "OK" from the stations in communication with us, we began to settle down and await the arrival of Captain Nevski and his men.

We had been given several food and drinking rations, but most of them were to be given to the wounded, so the majority of us went on with empty stomachs. I turned on the radio as to calm the men's nerves with lively tunes—and it worked, as the men began to sing along and tap to the rhythm. Over the course of a month and a half, my company has lost the majority of its troops, and many more now lay dying on the floor of a bombed school. I wanted them to at least be happy before they passed on. No man has gone without a scar and the wounded and dying could easily blend in amongst the crowd. I stood from my seat, drawing out the two packs of cigarettes I kept in my breast and hip pockets. I then proceeded to pass the cigarettes around, making sure that every man wounded or not, got one.

The Germans have begun to ease their way through the city, leaving a tight grip on every street they take. Death and destruction has become the fascists' odor, their treads leaving trails of terror and misery amongst both the people of Stalingrad and the men of the Red Army. Though the enemy moves at the pace of malaises, it has become harder to keep them at bay. Their morale ascends up and into the heavens while ours holds it breath and plunges down into the water.

A platoon of Germans came upon our position today, a pair of tanks rolling in behind them. Both rifles and explosive shells slammed into us, inevitably blowing away chunks of brick, stone, and flesh. I ordered my squad to man their machine guns and open fire on the infantry, leaving the tanks for the men with the rocket launchers. Durasov and Belinski manned one of our two machine guns, while Sokolov and Nikita manned the other. I ordered "open fire!" and they unleashed hell upon the vulnerable Germans, eliminating the majority. The surviving seemed to catch wind of this sudden turning point and turned back behind the tanks, which were still firing down upon us, and crawling up onto their backs. I, meanwhile, took my rifle and raced up onto the roof with a group of men from the other squads that were the least wounded.

The Mosin-Nagant with a telescopic sight was a very accurate weapon…it was able to range up to 800 plus yards. In the hands of an experienced rifleman, it had the capability of being lethal. I find respectable; easily obtainable and accurate, as well as being very rugged and reliable. It was unlike most rifles before it, better than the American Springfield or the British Lee Enfield.

I ordered the men to take aim and wait for my say-so to fire. I also brought up the men with the rocket launchers and ordered them to open fire on the tanks, which were slowly trudging on up to our positions. But, as soon as they roamed into our line of sight, the men opened up with the launchers, destroying one tank while maiming the other. The Germans on the first tank were all killed, blown to hell in a matter of seconds. The men who had hopped onto the second tank, mean-while, leapt up from their seats and down onto the damp ground.

"Keep firing!" I order. The random calls of, "Fascists in the open!" or "Die, Fritz! We'll thaw you out in the spring!" or "You fascist bastards came all this way just to die!" could easily be heard amongst the rapturous gunfire and explosions. I, spotting a promising opportunity, lobed a grenade at the feet of a German, who grabbed it and tossed it back at me. He didn't aim it well, however, and it bounced off the side of the wall in front of me and landed behind a squad of Germans advancing on the school.

 _BOOM!_

Flesh, limbs, blood, and intestines were torn apart as the grenade exploded at the Germans' feet. Their carcasses fell down together in a disorderly heap, blood pouring out and around them. I hastily look away, aiming down the sight towards a lone trooper taking cover behind a piece of debris from the destroyed tank.

The second tank raised its barrel up to our position and fired with both its main cannon and the two on its side firing explosive shells.

 _BOOM!_

 _Boom, boom!_

Dirt, snow, and smoke flew up into the air, followed soon by blood and bones. Three of the men collapse as the shells impact, chunks of their bodies completely gone. Their eyes were open but the life was gone.

The tank reloaded and fired again.

 _BOOM!_

 _Boom, boom!_

 _Boom, boom!_

The shells from the side guns slammed into the side of the wall, two entering through a window and exploding inside while the other two soared up over our heads. The shell from the main cannon, meanwhile, slammed into the wall, inches away from us. One of the men fell backward in pain, a sharp piece of brick shoved into his chest. Another man, seeing his fallen comrade, ran up to him and crouched down beside him, but was then shot in the temple and died instantly.

"Fire the rockets again!" I called out to the man with the bazooka. "Aim for the belly of that metal beast."

He nods and aims his launcher, firing as soon as he aligns the tank with the thin black line of his sight. As he squeezes the trigger, there is a loud cracking sound and the rocket is expelled from the barrel, slamming into the tank's chest. It blows to bits upon impact, but not all the Germans inside are killed.

Five men jump out, covered in flames. I order the men to shoot them, to put the pigs out of their misery.

I call out, "Nikita! Belinski! Check for survivors!"

With no response, I watch as Nikita runs out into the carnage, every now and again stopping at a body and kicking its flank. If it twitched, he would shoot it in the head. Then he jumped on top one of the tanks and fired a few shots inside before going in himself.

We all wait one moment.

He reappears and starts waving his arms in the air as a signal to inform us that the area was clear.

Belinski then came out and started kicking the snow over the flames of the burning tanks and dead German troops so that it didn't spread towards the school. With this done, I order the remaining men on the roof to bring the dead and wounded down onto the bottom floor while I went to check where the tank shell had impacted.

Racing down the steps, I found that the shell had exploded on the ceiling, but the debris had come crashing down on top of some unfortunate men who had been wounded the night before during a German raid.

As Nevski wasn't here, I was forced to write the report on the events of today. I discovered that Durasov and Sokalov's machine gun had been destroyed by one of the blasts and that Belinski's finger had been severed. We had a total of thirteen dead, twenty-one wounded or wounded again, and one incapacitated.

This was one of our biggest body count in our company so far, and I suspect that there will be more events like this one. Tonight, I have taken it upon myself to write the letters home to their families and collected their identification tags. When Nevski came back around 4 o'clock, I informed him about what had just happened, and he told me that he had "located the fuckers" and that "our artillery will break their will."

* * *

OCTOBER 29, 1942 – 1:34 P.M

Things have been pretty quiet over the past week.

My company has become busy on jobs revolving around burying the dead and quickly-planned assaults into fascist-held territory to flush out any remnants of the Fuhrer's assault forces. I have noticed that most of the dead enemy bodies were more commonly Italian or Croatian than German. I only saw a handful of actual German regular army men. I thought that was strange because most of the attacks we have been dealing with were usually spearheaded by the Third Reich.

Though the Reich's pure, aggressive strength is probably their finest weapon; their cowardice also seemed to help them profusely. They hid thinned themselves out amongst lines of Italians, Croatians, Romanians, Spanish, and Hungarians. This helped them take fewer casualties, but it also helped the morale of our own men. Knowing that the Germans were afraid to fight made the battles go along all the easier.

Early one morning, Nevski called me to the roof of the school. Once I arrived, he handed me a pair of binoculars and told me, "Come see this, Ivan, tell me if you think this is strange."

In a land of chaos, it was hard to define "strange."

I lifted the binoculars to my eyes and followed the finger Nevski was pointing. I spotted a flag dropped down over a window on the top floor of a building, draped over like a curtain. The swastika was adorned with pride on a red field and tears had been made on the bottom of the flag to make it look a little bit more graceful than war-damaged.

I looked at Nevski. "So what, the fascists are expressing their patriotism."

He swallowed. "That's the building we had targeted for our mortars a week ago, and now that they realize we are targeting their position, they choose to put up a flag for their Fuhrer? No, this is strange. I am going to contact Voronin and see what he thinks, but I see this as a symbol of defiance—it cannot go unpunished, so get your men ready."

* * *

OCTOBER 30, 1942 – 11:59 A.M

Nevski is planning an attack on the building with the flag.

I've begun to have a back problem. I saw a medic about it, but he just explained that I just needed to try lying down more. To tell you the truth, I don't see that happening any time soon.

The Captain has ordered that all ammo and provisions be salvaged, and that all explosives be brought to him immediately. He has had children and women scout out the area around the building to see if there was a weak point in their defenses, as well as to count how many guns and troops they had stationed there. Despite this, I don't believe Nevski has been given permission for this raid, as Voronin has yet to call or write us of any news. Nevski has become more impatient every day—he becomes angry over the littlest things and is more physical than most men in the company.

* * *

OCTOBER 30, 1942 – 7:15 P.M

I've never truly met anyone quite like Captain Elias Nevski.

He is not what you would say "old". Then again, he is not a young man. He is extremely tall. I think it is his sense of height that impresses me the most. The troops and the locals must be overwhelmed with his very size. Next thing that was most noticeable about him was the guns. He wore two TT-30's sitting high under his armpits in custom-made holsters, not the usual holsters they issue in a standard armory. He also carried a machete hidden within the lapels of his winter coat, one which he had used on several occasions during combat.

I have known Elias for years; he was my squad sergeant during my first year of service and became my friend upon his promotion to Lieutenant after the Second Kharkov. Despite this, he has taken a liking to calling me by my last name, Toufexis, instead of my first—Ivan. But he does treat me better than he would the other non-commissioned officers, in spite of me being a lowly Junior Sergeant squad leader.

He respects me and I respect him.

However, over the past couple of weeks, I have begun to worry about him—he fights with the goal of fulfilling his thirst for blood rather than for a Soviet victory in Stalingrad. One cannot look into the man's eyes, for you will see the soul of a man burning with a hatred for all things German.

I consider this man one of my best friends, but yet I know only little about him and he never wishes to share anything. But we talk and confess to one another, sharing a bond in which only brothers ever have. Recently, the men in our platoon have started a type of "guessing game" to figure out his past. The object of the game is to get a conversation going in which we bring up the subject of things such as "what did you do for a living?" or "how old were you when you volunteered, comrade?" and then would persist until we got an answer. So far, every time someone tries to do this, we are always shot down and threatened. This has led us to start gambling. Personally, I find it more entertaining than cards, but this is most likely due to me winning the most money.

* * *

NOVEMBER 1, 1942 – 8:01 P.M

I was not born to live in these times of turmoil. At least not in this place, Russia, the country I love. I am torn apart daily as I go through life as a supporter of the communist leader, Stalin, while in reality I am a lover of the newer democracy introduced by the Americans. I fight for my family, my beautiful wife Svetlana, not for Stalin and his government. I fight for the motherland; I fight to keep the Nazis from expanding into our country, _not_ for the communism way of life. I fight in the Red Army because I love my nation and my family.

But today, my squad and I have bared witness to the atrocities that come when Nazism and Communism collides:

Today Nevski was given the permission he was seeking to assault the building, and immediately began making his preparations. First, he divided the company into two different groups. 1st and 2nd Platoons would be making the assault while the 3rd stayed and protected the wounded. He then called in for the support company to send in a new batch of machine guns, which would be essential to the assault.

When they were finally shipped down to us, Nevski distributed the weapons out equally amongst the platoons and then debriefed us all on the mission—a simple one, according to Nevski.

The machine gunners for 1st and 2nd were to set up in a park across the street from the building while their mortars set up on the roof of a building within range of the target. My squad and I would then go in Nevski and 4th Squad to assault the building under the rest of the company's fire. As our own machine gunners would set up to cover the exits, the rest of us would assault each floor until we were able to cut down the flag and burn it. Nevski thought it was simple, so he thought he only needed a handful of shock troopers to assault a building estimated to contain over two dozen Germans. To make sure that the assault was executed perfectly, he made sure that each man got a PPD-40 submachine gun, two grenades, and the choice of either a Mosin-Nagant rifle or a coach gun. I chose to take the coach gun, as the Mosin-Nagant is much better for longer and more medium ranges than to close combat.

We loaded up all the supplies onto the trucks and prepared to move out. Nevski quickly ran an inspection to see that the school's defenses were satisfactory and ordered all the men to get into the space left on the trucks.

We drove up to the street block behind the building, loading out of the trucks and setting up our machine guns and mortars. With the majority of the men in their places, I was given the go by Nevski to start ordering the assault. I ordered Nikita—our support gunner—and Belinski down the left flank, Sokolov and Durasov down the center behind me, and 4th squad down the right following Nevski. 4th squad would be doing most of the heavy lifting, as my squad usually served as a support force.

Nikita, as our support gunner, carried a Degtyaryov light machine gun, which was often called the "Record Player" due to the disk-shaped pan magazine perched on the top of the weapon and the fact that it revolves as the gun is fired. Durasov and Sokolov served as our riflemen so carried Mosin-Nagant rifles as their main weapons and would be assigned to flanking the enemy once they have been fixed by suppressing fire from Nikita's fire. Belinski served as Nikita's support gunner, carried all the extra ammo for the machine gun, and carried a submachine gun to assist Nikita. I, meanwhile, kept a submachine gun for as long as we are at this far a range, but once we get inside, I would most likely switch to the coach gun.

I raised a finger to my lips. "Shhhh…"

If we were heard by the fascists, all of Nevski's planning would have gone down the drain.

Nevski and 4th squad stopped in between a set of hills made out of a cluster of ice and snow. Their support gunner set up his bipod while the others checked their weapons. Durasov and Sokolov raced all the way to the metal fence that stretched out across the perimeter of the property, while Nikita, Belinski, and I set up the machine gun in the gutter of a road opposite of the building.

Blowing away the smoke forming around my breath, I jumped up from the gutter and joined my two riflemen. Nevski and 4th squad immediately pushed up into the grounds surrounding the building.

I spotted a German.

"There, there!" I hissed towards Durasov. "I see a German on the left second floor window…he's got a machine gun!" I patted him on the shoulder and pointed up at the building.

Durasov raised his rifle, aimed, and fired.

 _CRACK!_

The bullet slapped the German's forehead and ricocheted into the side of the wall, pushing him off balance and straight out of the window. He screamed as he fell and his comrades were easily notified.

Two machine guns opened fire and two men behind Nevski dropped dead. One other pulled Nevski by the collar, pulling him to cover. Another machine gun, this set up high on the roof, caught wind of the attack and opened fire on anything that moved below it.

1st and 2nd Platoon opened fire amidst the chaos, with a little support from our own man, Nikita, whose gun began to whine as it fired. I aimed my PPD-40 at one of the gunners and fired a burst towards his chest. Signaling for Nikita and Belinski to move up to our position, Sokolov, Durasov, and I blindly fired up at the enemy positions.

A bullet whizzed past my head, hitting the steam evaporating from my breath.

Then, in turn, the steam turned into vapor, forming into a long white cloud. I watched as bullet soared through the air at 2700 feet per second until it impacted, right into Belinski's leg. Red mist sprayed out into the air and Belinski stumbled over with a gurgle of pain. We were all stunned, shuffling back farther behind cover. Belinski continued to wail in pain, his leg bent and bleeding badly. One of the Germans popped his head out, searching for us. I raised my weapon and fired a burst, blowing a chunk out of the man's face. One of the men from 4th squad ran up to Belinski and started to wrap his leg up with a bandage. He, unfortunately, was not lucky enough to be shot in the leg, but was rather hit in the chest and was killed almost immediately. I stepped out to fire a shot. The instant I did so, however, a bullet struck my ankle, tearing away both flesh and bone.

I stumbled over onto my knee and fired a shot off at one of the Germans.

Durasov crouched down beside me, patting Nikita on the back as he reached the cover behind us. "Are you okay?"

I bit my bottom lip. "Yes!"

"We got to get Belinski back into cover, comrade," Sokolov called. "Or he will either bleed to death or be shot by the fascist dogs."

"No!" I yelled, angry. "We're too exposed as it is…any man who goes out there is a dead man. No. Keep firing on them so Nevski and his men can break through, comrades."

Nikita shook his head. "Nevski's men are all dead, comrade!"

I closed my eyes, this time in a deeper state of anger. "Damn, we need to get contact with the rest of 1st and 2nd. None of us were supplied with one, but were any of Nevski's men given a portable radio?"

I looked out from cover and found an entrance into the building but thirty feet away. I, muted by the thunderous gunfire coming from the German machine gun, motioned for my men, with the exception of Nikita, to follow me as we assaulted the building. If we wanted to save Belinski and all the other men, we needed to eliminate the German threat.

Taking one last look at Belinski, who was almost trembling, I sprinted towards the building under Nikita's fire. As I ran, I looked up at the sky. All I could think about was the clouds. Not fluffy white clouds—surrounded by angels and sunlight, but thunderclouds taking up the whole greedy sky. I find it strange that I would do this, but then again, I had yet to see a blemish of blue on the grey sky for the past week and a half. If I was to die, I didn't want to go without seeing blue.

My ankle hurt.

I realized that I was more limping than sprinting, a worm-like trail following me closely. Reaching the building, I hugged the wall. I turned around and motioned for one of my men to follow. Durasov fired a shot at the Germans as Nikita took out another casing of ammo and Sokolov sprinted out into the open. Snow was kicked up all around him by the power of the bullets being fired at him.

Then there was a _CRACK!_

And Sokolov fell dead.

I drew out a grenade and tossed it into the window of where some Germans were firing from. Nikita and Durasov were then able to get to my position without incident. I kicked open the door to the structure, grenades were thrown and bullets were fired, and we proceeded to cover Nevski and the remnants of 4th squad as they crossed over to our position.

There were four stories in the structure and about twice as many Germans on each floor. Of the twenty-some Germans originally stationed there, three were taken prisoner. However, of the four men of 4th squad that entered with Nevski and my squad, one man came out alive, even if his leg had been blown off and had lost consciousness. We took the flag down from its perch and set it a flame. As the rest of 1st and 2nd Platoon set up shop in the lower levels and Belinski was attended to, my squad and I were given duty to watch the prisoners.

At around 7 o'clock, Nevski came in.

His eyes were teary, his brow sweaty, and his hands were clenched around empty bottles of German whiskey. He was obviously drunk and upset about what had happened just hours before. The bodies were being loaded onto trucks to be sent to Moscow, where they would be buried. He came right up to the prisoners, who we had lined up against the wall with their hands bound. We had given them cigarettes, as two of them were wounded and the other just seemed miserable.

Nevski dropped the bottles and drew out one of his pistols, digging it into the chin of one of the Germans. "This one's for my mother!" _CRACK!_ The man fell over with a bullet in his mouth. Nevski grabbed the next by the throat. "This one's for my father, butchers!" _CRACK!_ "This one's for my little sister, you fascist son of a bitch!" _CRACK!_

Three bodies lay at Nevski's feet and everyone around him stared in shock. I was infuriated, my hands clenched and my nose flaring. He continued to shoot the dead bodies. "That's for Valentina! That's for my dog! Ah, how you like it!"

Several bullets now lay stuck in each body and blood had begun to pour out onto the floor.

I marched up behind Nevski and grabbed his gun, casting it aside. He turned to me with a frown. I frowned back. "What do you think you are doing, Nevski! They were POWs; unarmed prisoners."

He shrugged. "They were Germans, they deserved death."

I could smell the alcohol in his breath. "You're drunk, comrade, you need to rest."

He shoved me. "Go to hell!"

I stumbled over on my wounded ankle, pain coursing through my leg. I stood back up, slowly and with panted breaths. We exchanged looks with one another, Nikita and Durasov looking on helplessly. Nevski shoved me again, only this time less hard and more intimidating.

Now utterly furious, I swung back my fist and struck the captain across the jaw, knocking him off balance. He gathered himself and looked at me, drawing out his other pistol. I tensed and backed away, my eyes switching from the blood dripping from Nevski's mouth to the weapon in his hand. But, for some reason, he flipped the pistol over and carried it by the barrel instead of the handle.

"Huh?" was my stupid reply.

 _SNAP!_ Something hit me hard across the temple. Was the snap my bones breaking or the handle of his pistol breaking apart? I found myself on my back, the taste of blood in my mouth and my vision hazy. From what I could see, there was a large commotion going on before me.

Durasov and Nevski had collided in an all-out brawl; fists and feet met tired bones and already softened flesh. Suddenly, Nevski had Durasov on the ground, his pistol in one hand while the other fumbled for a combat knife inches away from Durasov's grasp.

I struggled to my feet, my recently sealed ankle opened once again.

Durasov grabbed the knife and slashed open Nevski's hand, forcing the captain to stumble back. Nevski fired a shot from his pistol, hitting his opponent in the shoulder. Durasov, numb to his new wound, plunged at Nevski with his knife, stabbing right through the man's flesh.

Nevski cried out in pain and squeezed the trigger on his pistol.

 _CRACK!_

A bullet soared inches near Durasov's ear and slammed into Nikita's forehead, knocking two feet back and into the wall close behind him. I ran to my friend's side, but it was too late.

He was dead.

I cradled my comrade in my arms, completely oblivious to the men of 1st and 2nd platoons storming the room at the sound of gunshots. They separated Durasov and Nevski. I noticed them take the knife out of his body and try to breathe the life back into the captain, but ignored the rest. Durasov stumbled up to the opposite side of Nikita.

I closed the man's eyes and whispered a prayer.

Nikita and Sokolov…two out four men in my squad, men who I have shared dreams, nightmares, hobbies, rations, trust, and prayers with. I will never see these men again. All because of something only Nevski thought was needed.

I no longer consider Nevski a comrade.

* * *

NOVEMBER 2, 1942 – 11:34 P.M

The medic has managed to patch up my heel, but has told me that I will be limping for a couple months now.

Nikita is dead, but Nevski still breaths, having only been severely injured and will return to us in a couple of weeks. So, filling in for the captain, Commissar Pavelonva has taken command over the company. Belinski, meanwhile, has been patched up and has come back to us as we were transported from the school to a more sturdy building west of a large courtyard.

We have set up our guns so that they point directly at the courtyard and the houses beyond. Pavelonva has told us that the German "rats" have been using this courtyard as a supply depot for their armor and their artillery, and that patrols would be coming to and from the courtyard to reinforce their troops. When I asked him why he wanted our guns pointing at the buildings on the other end of the courtyard, he had this to say:

"The rats are creeping all over that position, so if they try to charge across the courtyard, our guns with be ready to end their fascist lives. If they come for our blood, they will drown in their own."

He then sent me on my way with an ignorant scoff, shooing me with his hands. So, I returned to my men as they began to set up the two machine guns we had been given. Belinski showed us all where he had been shot and the scar that was left after the medics had sealed the wound. We inquired him about what it had felt like to get wounded, to which he replied, "I felt vulnerable…like a baby chick that has just hatched out of its protective shell."

Durasov then turned to me. "How did it feel like for you?"

I shrugged. "It was painful, that's all I can remember."

Durasov laughed, shaking his head whilst lighting a cigarette for both me and Belinski. I can't remember the last time I had had a cigarette before this moment, and, as the heat of the tobacco touched my lips, I felt warm for the first time since September.

Belinski took his coach gun and rested it on his lap; taking a drag from the cigarette he had been given. "If it weren't for cigarettes, comrades, I don't think I'd ever make it through this winter. Already my fingers have begun to stiffen with frostbite and my body endlessly shakes. Even when I was resting in the field hospital it is cold."

A little after five o'clock in the afternoon, rain began to fall upon us in sheets. Gusts of bitter wind seemed to blow straight in our faces. I withdrew myself from the room we had begun to take shelter in and sought refuge inside the kitchen the Commissar had taken as his headquarters. It was filled with men from the company and civilians whose homes had been destroyed. Despite this, I managed to find myself a place to lie and quickly fell asleep. About one hour later, I was awoken to the sound of the people stirring and talking, and coming awaken I heard the sound of a plane buzzing overhead.

I ran to the window, as it did not sound like one of our planes, and found that it was definitely one of the German _Stuka_ bombers. Pavelonva called for everyone to take cover just seconds before the bomb was dropped and the plane's machine guns begins to fire.

 _BOOM!_

The kitchen exploded.

* * *

NOVEMBER 3, 1942 – 8:56 A.M

War is everywhere, and its danger grows as the Fuhrer's army grows in size and ferocity. I have underestimated the Third Reich's savagery and lust for power. Its massive, tireless, well-prepared armies attack our positions relentlessly, usually with little to no warning, and leave a sickening path of destruction in their wake. And now they have done the unforgivable: I have received a letter that my home and neighborhood in eastern Stalingrad has been attacked and destroyed. The place where I spent my childhood; where my brother, his wife, and his two children had made their homes; now utterly annihilated has been left as a smoldering heap of rubble. I can only pray that my friends and family escaped safely.

General Badanov came to our position today, looking for volunteers for an elite shock battalion he was forming. I eagerly volunteered my squad for a scouting post in his new army. The horrors of this war have given me a new resolve, and I am no longer content with what my company has currently been doing. We will not lose Stalingrad; Hitler shall not conquer the motherland.

* * *

NOVEMBER 4, 1942 – 9:30 P.M

Tonight I have the pleasure of camping with Badanov's army. The battalion has heard rumors of a pending attack. They are holding the high ground in the old ruins of Stalingrad's industrial district. Colonel Voronin has been given command of this army and never goes anywhere without his five bodyguards. I fear that he believes someone is going to make an attempt on his life.

I spun up a conversation with Voronin, who spoke of the war in the idealistic manner of a loyal Russian. "Stalin is a noble man; Hitler, on the other hand, is his opposite…is evil. Hitler and the Third Reich seek power and wealth, like so many generals before him. At what point do we, intelligent beings, begin to learn from our history?"

* * *

NOVEMBER 17th, 1942 – 7:13 P.M

Our men moved away from the industrial district after being relieved by a larger force. We travel along the banks of the Volga River in an attempt to distract the German 6th Army as Operation "Uranus" was put into effect. From what we have been told, the plan was for the units of the Red Army on the enemy's northern flank to assault the German and Romanian positions in hopes of encircling the enemy army group's main component, the German 6th Army. From what little information we were given, it was basically a perfect plan.

But I have my doubts.

We were to take up residence in the ruins of one of Stalingrad's northwestern districts and fire upon the enemy's positions with our mortars. Hopefully, the Germans would send the majority of their troops to attack our positions, leaving the rest vulnerable to the Soviet attack.

We are now camped amongst the ruins of the city. Its cement sidewalks and fallen walls act as a window into the past of this bloody war. The lifeless eyes of a weather-worn face stare out at me from among the ruins. Those eyes of stone, belonging to some abandoned and broken statue, are a haunting sight.

This is my second war, both wars fought for a righteous cause, both enemies ruthless and vile; and yet, even now, one thing remains the same: the eyes, the look of overwhelming fear and desperation in every set of dying eyes. And yet, the gut churning feeling I get when I look in those eyes is the same feeling that keeps me hear on the front lines. Some other set of eyes is counting on me to keep the spark of life and freedom alive in them.

This district is a tactical bottleneck. Mountains of snow and debris are piled on top of every road, forcing the Germans to march their men through one road in order to reinforce the 6th Army. I am told that, if the 6th Army is reinforced any more, it would be impossible for our comrade forces to defeat the army.

Now, for the first time since I have been deployed into this city, we have a chance to win this fight and encircle the German armies. Hitler believes we are all worn out. His forces have cut away at our numbers by engaging in all these bloody battles after battles. But, finally, the tides are changing. We are summoning reinforcements from all around—gaining help from civilians and outside armies alike.

Earlier today I was caught off guard by the loud vroom of wheels speeding against debris. I reached for my binoculars to take a closer look, and discovered a sea of Russian troops. Mounted on top of jeeps armed with machine guns, I saw the rest of our original company approach our positions, Captain Nevski standing at the helm. They all parked in an alley, took off the machine guns, and covered the jeeps with camouflage. Nevski then ordered the men to set up their guns among our already set up positions.

Voronin, after having a brief conversation with Nevski, came up to us with a glum look on his face. "Ivan, you and your squad are to report back to Captain Nevski from now on, understood?"

Durasov and Belinski expressed looks of distress.

I tried to calm them. "Does that mean we're no longer apart of Badanov's unit, sir?"

"Yes," Voronin answered. "Your company is short-handed as is, and Badanov had no right to take you from them. You and your squad shall be taking orders from Nevski once again, is that understood?"

I swallowed hard. "Yes sir."

I motioned for my squad to displace from our current position and ordered for them to follow me as I went to Nevski for our new orders. He looked at me with disgusted sneer and said, "Toufexis, take a machine gun and dig yourselves some foxholes along the debris right of the road."

I cocked an eyebrow. "But, sir, we'll be completely exposed if we set up there."

He squinted. "I know."

I swallowed hesitantly. This man wanted us dead. But, what was I to do about it? He was our CO and if we didn't do as he said we would be shot. So, reluctantly, I told my men of our new orders. Despite their pissed off attitudes towards the situation, they did as they were told and we moved out. I grabbed a Record Player machine gun and followed Durasov and Belinski as they headed over to our designated position.

As we began to dig our foxhole, Durasov began to gripe. "That bastard, Nevski, wants us dead. For what we did to him, he fucking wants to kill us."

Belinski squinted in confusion. "I thought you said he started it. What should he be mad about? That he lost? That he killed Nikita? That Svoloch deserves to be court-martialled and executed for treachery. Stalin has little need for heroes, so he must have little patience for traitorous drunkards."

"If Nevski's a traitor," I said. "So is Durasov—no offense, comrade—and so am I. All three of us had some fault in what happened. It's what he did that led to Nikita's death, but what you and I, Durasov, did that fueled the gears of the machine. Though it might seem like utter foolishness, Nevski has a right to be angry…I mean you slashed his chest open for God's sake. He fell over and his finger slipped."

"The gun shouldn't have been out in the first place!" Durasov exclaimed. "He was under the influence of alcohol. That is what led to our comrade's death, not my actions or yours. We acted in self-defense and the defense of others, despite the fact that the others were fascists."

Belinski smiled deviously. "Maybe it was your love for the Germans th—"

"Fuck you!" I yelled. "Keep digging."

All of us stopped talking at that, picked up our entrenching tools, and continued to dig our foxhole.

By the time this was done the sun had fallen.

* * *

NOVEMBER 19, 1942 – 8:01 P.M

The assault has begun today.

We all watched it occur from the safety of the roofs that still stood amidst the ruined buildings. All I could see were tracer rounds exploding upon the horizon, explosions discharging all around, and hundreds of little dots racing across the city landscape.

Belinski happily counted the explosions he saw, scribbling down tallies on the back page of my journal. He promised all of us that he would be handing out one cigarette for every two explosions. None of the men, myself included, ever held him up to his promises, as he usually "forgot" or "never said it". But after it was over, he didn't give us the cigarettes anyway, despite the twenty explosions.

Nevski came up to the roof and called into the crowd. "Okay, everyone back to your positions. The Romanians have begun to hold their positions and have dug in pretty well against our comrades. Field Marshall Zhukov has made it so that, if the Romanians should manage to escape and flee, they will be forced to come down to us," he pointed to the road, "here. It is part of Field Marshall Zhukov's plan that we don't allow the enemy past this road. There shall be no retreat. Any man who disobeys this order shall be shot," he looked up at me. "Am I understood?"

There was a low chorus of "Yes sir!" and everyone sped down to their positions and loaded their weapons.

I crouched down amongst the debris, two feet beside the foxhole, and slipped two rounds into my coach gun. Durasov and Belinski, meanwhile, helped one another quickly load the Record Player and set it up so that it was ready to fire. We had all known this moment would come; most had done everything in their power to try and avoid it. This, an event that could be the turning point of this battle in Stalingrad, would also be a turning point in our lives. If we routed the German 6th Army and forced them into a retreat, they would be completely encircled and be forced to surrender, being cut off from the rest of their forces. I found myself with the "fighting-for-a-fallen-comrade" mindset, the images of Sokolov and Nikita's faces crossed over my visage, but so did Nevski's. In a way Nevski is a fallen comrade, corrupted by war and its atrocities.

But, unlike Sokolov and Nikita, I believe Nevski can be saved from the fiery gates of Hell. My squadmates are dancing in Heaven now, Durasov, Belinski, and I are dancing amongst the living mortals, and Nevski has been roughly dragged to the in-between. He is a shade, a wraith; holding onto delusions as a phantom hiding from the light with us men.

Durasov leaned in. "Strike hold, comrades." And he patted Belinski and me on the shoulder.

Belinski nodded and handed out the cigarettes he owed us. Durasov quickly lit one of his and began smoking it, while I took mine and tucked them into my breast pocket. I then took a winter cap with the Russian hammer-and-sickle embroidered onto it and placed it on my head.

I've recently noticed how much colder the weather has been getting. Even in the heat of battle I have found myself shivering from the cold wind and the snow surrounding me. Here, the winter snows last from October to late February, and the days become almost unbearable. I think some time, before I die, I will escape this place and visit, maybe, Spain, Morocco, or South America. Any of these places would be more desirable than Russia. I love my country but, sometimes you just have to get away.

I watched as a couple of the men Nevski had taken as his personal bodyguards ran out onto the road, carrying mines and wire. They then took the explosives and planted it amongst debris, which they pulled from the destroyed building they were taking cover in. Attaching the explosives to one end of the wire, they pulled the opposite end of the wire and tied it around a trigger. With this done, two of them began to pile up bricks and stones and blocks of wood up around the diameter of the road in an attempt to slow the German vehicles down.

As we waited for the enemy to arrive, I began to write down, in udder boredom, what my company had to throw at the Germans and their allies. The company had a total of about sixty-five men, each armed with a rifle or submachine gun, a pistol or another rifle, and six grenades. There were also men armed with machine guns and mortars, anti-tank weapons, and grenade launchers. Nevski's bodyguards were armed with German MP 18 submachine guns, which they had discovered amongst German corpses, and each were given German Panzerfausts and Tokarev pistols, which Nevski had to beg off of the supply officers.

Despite there being about only twelve men acting as his bodyguards, Nevski made sure they were the most highly equipped men in the entire army. All of them were the finest soldiers from their respective divisions, handpicked by Nevski himself to conduct "special" operations. They were elite troopers dedicated to protecting Nevski and defeating the Germans.

If Nevski died, his men were going to make sure it wasn't from a bullet, explosion, or bayonet.

The bodyguards were relatively unfriendly towards the men of the company, either shunning us or becoming upset whenever placed beside one of us instead of their own. They were all non-commissioned officers and had at least some control over us grunts. Despite being a junior sergeant, some of the bodyguards, who were Corporals, have had authority over me.

One of the bodyguards, Corporal Yuri Daletski, came to our foxhole and began passing out a couple canisters of ammo for the Record Player and a drum full of grenades. He told us, "Use the grenades wisely…there aren't any more left that you can use." and then left for the building Nevski was in. We all watched as he left, a rifle in one hand and a cigar in the other. Durasov took out a pack of cards and began to play a game with Belinski.

"From what I've heard," Belinski started. "Only a company of Romanians are coming this way…the rest have either been captured or surrounded and forced to flee in another direction."

Durasov shuffled the cards. "Well, after listening on the radio, I heard that we probably won't meet the stiff resistance we've been preparing for. I don't think we will be fighting a force bigger than a couple platoons. I heard that the Germans got cut off in the south and that half the Romanian tanks have been destroyed."

"It's not surprising," Belinski replied. "Our intelligence stated that the enemy had only about one hundred serviceable tanks and, when the attack began, only thirty of them worked. There's a big blizzard going on down there, which probably froze the tanks' traction and froze their sights. They were probably as coordinated as a hill of ants without their Queen."

"What do you think, Ivan?"

I shrugged. "War's confusing…"

I tried to play dumb. I do most of the time. In reality, I understood that the goal of the operation was to eliminate the German 6th Army's flanks by defeating the 170,000 Romanians stationed there and, with luck, encircle the remaining Germans trapped inside our lines. Zhukov's plan was to overwhelm the Romanian positions with several attack waves consisting of a large amount of Soviet troops. Earlier today, Nevski informed us that our attack on Army Group B in September had been a part of Zhukov's overall scheme to cut off the German and Romanian supply lines.

From what we have heard on the radio lines, our comrades have already made a massive wedge in the Romanian forces, making most of them run in fright, but the majority of their forces were stuck between stiff walls of resistance by both the Romanians and the Germans. Nevski keeps telling us that if any Romanians managed to escape the grasp of our comrades, they would be forced to come down this road, and yet, we still haven't seen any human being come down or around this road.

As the sun began to set, we could all still hear the distant rumble of explosions and the crackle of gunfire. Nevski ordered all fires and sources of light to be extinguished and at least one of every two men to be awake at all times, weather we work in shifts or continuously. I decided to take the first shift so that I might write this diary entry down before all light had gone out. I find myself overjoyed that I have written as neatly as I am.

After the sun had gone down, I saw Nevski take a walk down the road, coming back about half an hour later carrying something large in his hand. I hid beneath my blanket of shadows and watched as he passed my foxhole. Very briefly, I looked up towards what was in his hand, only to find the twisted faces of three Romanians who'd had their heads severed from their bodies.

I crouched down in my foxhole, apparently noisier than I had hoped, as Nevski turned towards my direction and came up to my squad's foxhole. All I could hear was the sound of gravel beneath his boots, but, when it stopped, I could hear a low, maniacal laugh.

"You like that, Toufexis?"

Then, there was a _swish_ in the air and a thud, and very barely through the darkness, I saw the head of one of the Romanians resting a couple feet before my legs.

"You can have that one, comrade. Enjoy."

And he walked away.

I can't bear to go near the head, so that's where it shall remain until my squad awakens tomorrow. They can deal with it then, but for now I will let them sleep, for I know now that I probably won't be able to. Nevski's trying to kill me, using bullets, sleep deprivation, and fright. What have I done to deserve this? As I recall, we were friends before that incident with the prisoners.

* * *

NOVEMBER 20, 1942 – 10:31 P.M

I awoke to the earth trembling.

Snow, dirt, and blood shook all over. Explosive rounds simmered above me and blew into my company's positions. Through the haze of fatigue, I managed to see Belinski in front of me, manning the machine gun, as Durasov sat beside him, firing his rifle. I shook my head and sat up, not even noticing the grotesque head of the Romanian that had been thrown in our foxhole the night before. I crawled up on the opposite side of Belinski, taking my rifle from the edge of the hole.

"Come on, you bastards!" Belinski screamed, firing a burst from the machine gun before reloading. "Come on you—"

 _BAAM!_

A round landed three feet before us. Belinski was cut off mid-sentence as he ducked for cover. After a few moments, he straightened back up and reloaded the Record Player, taking in a quick drag from his cigarette before continuing his fire on the enemy.

I raised my rifle and pointed it towards the direction of the gunfire. I instantly spotted dozens of enemy infantry, which I easily identified as Romanians by their brown uniforms and their curved helmets, stumbling over the debris covering the road whilst firing random shots on our positions. After a second of looking, I also noticed a pair of German tanks bursting through the rubble with great force before firing incredibly devastating shells on us. Several bodies—their blood and bowels hanging out and splattered around—lay strewn about the road. As the tanks moved, the ground shook and the pieces of shattered material bounced around.

Corporal Daletski came running across the road. One of the tanks fired. The shell landed on the man's back, blowing him apart. His chest seemed to burst open like a balloon as his intestines fell out and blood splattered all over. His body broke into three pieces, all of which ripped apart like paper and fell flat on ground, never to move again.

Bullets soared in all directions. The building where the majority of the company was holding up was nearly destroyed; dozens of nasty holes lay in its sides, leaving several men exposed and vulnerable. However, it was obvious that the men were holding their own, firing down upon the oncoming enemy with all they had. But, it seemed, was not enough. I could see the look on the men's faces, the fear in their eyes—they were on the verge of breaking and running.

Then something happened.

Nevski stood up on a pile of rubble, a revolver raised in one hand and a fist bent beside his hip. He was the American general George Washington, standing upon the prow of his ship to face the enemy head-on. His bodyguards quickly crowded around him, either stepping in front of him or attempting to pull him down. Any attempt made was met with a stiff body that shouted the word "no", as Nevski continued to fight.

Durasov patted me on the shoulder. Once he'd caught my attention, he pointed to one of the tanks, which was beginning to cower into an alley. "I think they're trying a pincer move, Ivan. What do we do?"

"Go, comrade, get to Nevski and tell him. Belinski and I will cover you."

Durasov nodded, fired a round at the Romanians, and leapt out of the foxhole as Belinski unloaded his weapon into the enemy. To my relief, he made it across the road without any problems, and the last I saw of him was his back disappearing into the ruined building. Soon, however, the second tank began pushing up through the road towards our position. So, as it began to fire towards us, I ordered Belinski to displace to the second floor window of the building behind our position. I covered him as best I could, but the tank shrugged off the bullets that snapped around its hard shell.

It did not stop. Like a train charging on its tracks. It would not stop unless its driver wanted it so. The moment Belinski was in the cover of the building, I leapt out of the hole just seconds before I was crushed by the tank. The tank commander sprang out of the top of the armored vehicle armed with a submachine gun.

He saw me and I saw him.

I, however, was a bit quicker and shot him quickly…right between the eyes. He went _plunk_ down into the tank and I sprang away just as another one of the tank crew came out and began firing on me with the same submachine gun. Snow and wood, rocks and glass were all kicked up around me, but I myself managed to get to cover without taking a graze.

Once inside, I followed Belinski as he raced upstairs and set up his machine gun in the window. The tank crew didn't seem to like this and raised their main cannon up at us, missing us only by a few yards.

The roof blew off and the walls crumbled. I felt like I was in the middle of that tornado in the American movie the _Wizard of Oz_ , my mind swirled around and around, my eyes seeming to shake, and suddenly the ground was taken out from under me and I fell, hitting the ground below hard. When I woke, my vision was blurred.

But I saw Belinski.

He came staggering up to me, several shards of wood jutting out of his chest and back. His eyes were bloodshot and his lower lip was quivering. Belinski reached out to me with one hand, the hoarse and raspy word "Comrade…" before he fell to the ground dead.

I stayed where I was, tears rolling down my eyes and sobs escaping my lips. His head was resting on my ankle, a puddle of blood forming up around his waist and his Record Player lay split in two beside him. I don't know how long I sat there, staring at his body. But when I eventually stood up, my face red and my eyes watery, I could hear the Romanians outside, running around as my comrades fired upon them.

I walked out, trudging through the snow and debris with little consideration for my life. My rifle dragged at my side, explosions and bullets crashing down around me from every which-way. The pain in my heart, despite how extreme and real it felt, was almost numbing at the same time. I couldn't feel the force of the grenade explosions rocking around me, I couldn't feel the bullet slam through my leg, and I couldn't feel the blood pouring out of me.

I could see one of Nevski's bodyguards, Sergeant Alexei, run up to me, rest his rifle on the ground, and take me by the shoulders. He dragged me across the road and brought me to a nearby building, calling for a medic and for Durasov to come help him bandage my leg. My ears were ringing and my head was spinning. There was no roof to the building and the icy winds roared below the dim, dreary skies. Each gust felt like a thousand knives running straight through me. My leg was especially cold; stinging like the skin had been ripped from the bone. Durasov came and helped prop my leg up on a stool so Alexei could wrap a large piece of white cloth around my wound.

Durasov patted my cheek. "You are going to be alright, comrade. It is just a flesh wound…" He looked up nervously towards Alexei, who simply wiped the sweat off of my hot forehead.

"I can't stop the bleeding," Alexei said. "We need to move him to the medical base down by the cemetery."

"Alright," Durasov replied.

Alexei tied a knot in the cloth and made sure it was sturdy. There was a strained shock of pain around my wound and my vision began to blacken. With what little strength I had, I raised my arm and gripped Durasov's collar. When I started to speak, what little audible speech that came out was covered in a sob.

"Belinski's dead…" I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. "They killed him, comrade. I failed him…"

Durasov gently gripped my hand. "It is okay, comrade—"

"He is going into shock," Alexei abruptly announced. "We need to get him out of here."

I felt a hard pressure as Alexei grabbed both my shoulders and Durasov lifted both my legs. They both then proceeded to carry me outside, amidst the gunfire and explosions, and bring me far away from the sounds of war. I don't know how long they carried me for, but, after a while, I began to doze out. All I can remember after that was Alexei and Durasov meeting a medic squad about three blocks down the road from the fighting, the rumblings of cannon and small arms fire echoing in my ears.

Like the roar of a lion, it was.

But, I was not yet taken by the grasp of death, finding myself being thrown upon a sleigh and dragged through the barren streets of Stalingrad.

I watched on, helpless, as I was pulled through the gates of a cemetery. Around me, sleds confiscated from children were pulled along, wounded and dead bodies laid down upon them. There was a makeshift hospital at one corner of the cemetery, but it seemed to be filled to the brim with both doctors and dying soldiers. Standing amongst the graves of the loved and lost, the gravediggers were weak and dying from hunger; I watched one collapse down into the hole he had dug. The coffins had all been burnt for fuel, so the bodies had been wrapped in blood-dampened cloth as a replacement.

One of the medics took a slip, scribbled on it with a pen, and slapped it down onto my chest. I then watched as two more men lifted me up from the sleigh and rested me down onto a soft stack of hay and pulled up a blanket to my chin, but left my wounded leg open from the covers. They then left me to rest for a moment while they treated other patients recently coming to the facility.

"You shouldn't be moving so much," one of the doctors told me upon seeing me write in this journal. "Finish your thoughts, but no more writing, comrade. It'll needlessly prolong your stay here."

What could I say? I had no other idea beside "O.K" at the time, but now I wish I hadn't agreed. Now, as the sunlight begins to dim outside, I see that I will need to stop soon. I don't know how I will get to sleep tonight, as all I can see when I close my eyes are Belinski's…the blood swelling up around him and the shards of wood slashed through his torso like scissors on paper…I don't wish to think about it any-more. Also, I can only think about Durasov, Alexei, and Nevski, who are still on the line, fighting the enemy, the cold, and each other while I lie here in a warm hay bed with a blanket. It doesn't seem fair that, because of a small bullet, I have been relieved of all my previous duties. Despite the brief sociability between Durasov and Alexei, I believe the latter will continue Nevski and the former will become isolated during his time without me, troubled both with the death of Belinski and my injury.

I suspect this place shall be made my home at least for a small while. They say that the bullet didn't go all the way through my leg, so I should look forward to the procedure to remove it tomorrow. They say it shall be quick and simple, with little to no pain as they just got in a new shipment of morphine.

I don't believe them.

* * *

DECEMBER 12, 1942 – 8:32 A.M

It has been a week or so since the operation on my leg, but, in all honesty, I cannot tell the difference. At some points, like before, it will be numb and I won't be able to move it. On others, the pain is so excruciating that the doctors have to give me two syringes of morphine, which they are foolish to hand out so willingly, as the army has little to spare.

One day, when the snow had ceased to fall, a German mortar strike hit a few of the graves in the yard outside of the medical tent. The machine gunners stationed along the stone wall encompassing the perimeter of the graveyard did the best they could, but there was nothing they could do against artillery. It was at that moment in which one of the bursts of pain occurred, making me scream and shout and sputter out the worst of curses. The orderlies came at me, and I, in a blind rage, flung out at them with my fists, breaking one's nose and shoving the other aside. I found myself on the floor, floundering like a fish out of water.

The mortars dropped on the ground and splashed down in flames, like pebbles skipping across the surface of a pond. Graves were undone, men were thrown into the air, and the snow caught fire. Another orderly, a blonde woman, came to me and began to stroke my hair, singing a lovely Soviet tune.

I'm ceased to yell; I began to shiver, my teeth chattering.

"You will be alright, shh…" she whispered.

She took me in her arms, the mortars still thundering out strong. Nothing as simple as a hug would seem to be so calming, yet it was the only thing restricting me from the mayhem that engulfed my surroundings. Through the hushed tone of a whisper, she told me everything about her: her name is Ninel Putin; she is a nurse from St. Petersburg; she has luscious blonde hair she spends only minutes on, yet always is complimented on by her peers; both her parents were killed during an automobile accident; she has two daughters and a son.

When the mortar strike finally ended, she lifted me up onto my good leg and rested me down on my cot.

"I shall be right back," she told me, leaping away to help carry the wounded in from the open. It took until sunset until she returned, but by this time I was dozing in and out of slumber. Ninel stayed with me all throughout the night, and it was stopped only by the sound of distant gunfire and the call for someone with medical expertise.

So, she left me be to write this journal entry.

 _A Poem from the Fallen:_

Between _the pornographic images of War and Death,_  
 _I find myself transformed—translated into_  
 _That Which Was, That Which Could Never Be._

 _You Schutzstaffel—You Protective Echelon—_  
 _You killed my Daughter, murdered her Father._  
 _The Greeks have called me Persephone,_  
 _The Slavs have called me Hel_  
 _For i am not Jew, no Romani, no Witness to Jehovah—_  
 _i am the Green-badged Angel of Life,_  
 _i am the Teary-eyed Lover of Death—_  
 _These children of the ghetto depend on me._

 _And You—You Schutzstaffel—You Protective Echelon—  
You are the Autumnal Winter, You protect None.  
my Micah, my Poor Angel, dying in my arms—  
And all You can think of is Sex—or Rape—  
The lines have been skewed in Your view.  
But i will not crack under You.  
With Your gun in my hand, i give You a Shot of Mercy,  
And You cannot understand—  
This Ghetto Uprising, This Unabashed Defiant—_

 _i harbor no fear of You—You Shutzstaffel—You Fool—  
i've watched Your kind before  
Dragging the Nameless Dead—my Life, my Love—  
Into an unmarked, communal grave.  
You raped me, destroyed my people's will,  
But still i rise, still i resist.  
This ghetto, this camp will not be my Death.  
Your blue eyes, Your hatred will not be my Death.  
my Death was all ready chosen  
On Kristallnacht, i saw my Death  
In my Daughter's eyes, in her Father's eyes.  
i found myself transformed—translated into  
Persephone, the Queen—Hel, the Hard-Hearted—  
The Green-badged Angel of Life—  
The Teary-eyed Lover of Death—  
The Ghetto Uprising—The Unabashed Defiant—  
The Shot of Mercy that should have killed You._

 _i hate You—You Schutzstaffel—You Fool—  
Heydrich, Himmler, Hitler—The Unholy Trinity,  
And i forgive the Sons of Your Sin._

There will never be a time of relief. With a final thought, with a final breath from this once-sharpened tounge, I make a decree to those Who won. To those who survived, and had not fallen haste to Evil's beautiful touch.

As long as I strive, as I long as I struggle, I can not lose the fight. For if I lose, for if I fall to Sin's love, the death of one soul, will be a greater bane, than those who wished to fight for vain.

END OF STORY

* * *

A/N:

Hello! I finished this story. An angst story from World War Two. So, as you may have read in the Beginning Author's Note, bear with me.

Reasoning:

So, I wanted to try something different with this story. A situation where literary fiction and philosophical fiction mix together to create a complex issue of morality. Since this is a whole new level of writing that I believe, in my opinion, that writers are accustomed to, I wanted to try something new. And might I say, this was a very hard style to decipher.

Srictly speaking, the philosophy of literature is a branch of aesthetics, the branch of philosophy that deals with the question, "what is art"? Much of aesthetic philosophy has traditionally focused on the plastic arts or music, however, at the expense of the verbal arts. In fact, much traditional discussion of aesthetic philosophy seeks to establish criteria of artistic quality that are indifferent to the subject matter being depicted. Since all literary works, almost by definition, contain notional content, aesthetic theories that rely on purely formal qualities tend to overlook literature.

The very existence of narrative raises philosophical issues. In narrative, a creator can embody, and readers be led to imagine, fictional characters, and even fantastic creatures or technologies. The ability of the human mind to imagine, and even to experience empathy with, these fictional characters is itself revealing about the nature of the human mind. Some fiction can be thought of as a sort of a thought experiment in ethics: it describes fictional characters, their motives, their actions, and the consequences of their actions. It is in this light that some philosophers have chosen various narrative forms to teach their philosophy.

Literary works also pose issues concerning truth and the philosophy of language. In educated opinion, at least, it is commonly reputed as true that _Sherlock Holmes lived in London_. (see David Lewis 'Truth in Fiction', American Philosophical Quarterly, Vol. 15. No. 1, January 1978) It is also considered true that _Samuel Pepys lived in London_. Yet Sherlock Holmes never lived anywhere at all; he is a fictional character. Samuel Pepys, contrarily, is judged to have been a real person. Contemporary interest in Holmes and in Pepys share strong similarities; the only reason why anyone knows either of their names is because of an abiding interest in reading about their alleged deeds and words. These two statements would appear to belong to two different orders of truth. Further problems arise concerning the truth value of statements about fictional worlds and characters that can be implied but are nowhere explicitly stated by the sources for our knowledge about them, such as _Sherlock Holmes had only one head_ or _Sherlock Holmes never travelled to the moon_.

See? With a writing as complex as this, it makes for some _very_ interesting plot points.

Like I mentioned early, literary fiction played a role in this story's creation. Although literary realism is a controversial style of writing, here are the basises of it:

" _..a concern with social commentary, political criticism, or reflection on the human condition, a focus on "introspective, in-depth character studies" of "interesting, complex and developed" characters, whose "inner stories" drive the plot, with detailed motivations to elicit "emotional involvement" in the reader. A character-centric work (here in a pejorative sense) and, even, portraiture at the expense of any substantive plot." (Wikipedia)_

As you could see, Ivan seemed to delve quite deeply into this genre. Concerns over social commentary, political discourse. human condition, is what he laments over in this fic. He is necessary the cheerful man that we have become accustomed to, as that is a common head cannon, but he is now a righteous advocate for combating the evils in his world.

Conclusion:

So, that is the gist of the story. Ivan seems to be a more sympathetic character to align with. Hopefully, that is the case.

This truly is very different from other stories I have made.


End file.
